When the Wall Fell
by silver thorns
Summary: Even before the wall collapses, before Robert de Sablé's failed assassination, before Altaïr spits on every tenant of the Creed, Malik is uneasy. A look on what happened when the wall crumbled and Malik's life was changed forever.


**Hello everyone! I realise I'm probably a little late (alright, horrendously late) to the fandom and that this story has been done to death, but the first game has always been my favourite. I've longed to do fanart and fanfiction for it forever, but never really plucked up the courage; with so many fabulous fics already out there, it seemed impossible for me to compete. But here it is - my take on what happened after Altaïr ruined everything for everyone.**

**So yeah, hope you enjoy it :) Comments and crits always welcome, especially since it's been such a long time since my last posting.  
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_**~When the Wall Fell~**_

Even before the wall collapses, before Robert de Sablé's failed Assassination, before Altaïr spits on every tenant of the Creed, Malik is uneasy. From the moment he hears Kadar's excited chattering and Altaïr's arrogant one word answers, a deep, restless fear settles in the Assassin's bones. Today will be the end of something, though what he is not sure. He almost says something sentimental to his brother, some lasting words of affection in case of... something, but Altaïr's sneer snatches the words from his throat and so he says nothing.

Later, he realises that this above all else is the thing he regrets the most.

The brothers crouch low in the shadows. Their eyes are fixed on a golden, glowing box. It looks so small, so tiny, so insignificant, yet it consumes their world till there is nothing left but that otherworldly light. Altaïr is the only one not affected; he stands tall and proud above them, eagle eyes searching the hall. As de Sablé appears, cloak billowing behind him, he tenses and drops low, shifting his weight from foot to foot with impatience. Malik shrinks away from him involuntarily. The intensity radiating from the Assassin steals his breath, and unbidden a tremor runs through him. They whisper and hiss in the darkness, but it is clear that Altaïr is not listening. As soon as he tires of waiting, he is gone - leaping down with a snarl, he spares no thought for Malik cursing in his wake. Hurriedly they jump after him before he can cause any further damage, but it is already too late, far too late. The dread sweeps over him. Altaïr steps forward, confident and mocking, promising death even as his target laughs and signals for his men.

He tries to stop Altaïr lunging at de Sablé, but the eagle has taken flight and only has eyes for his prey. He's not quick enough, however, and stumbles off-balance into de Sablé's waiting arms. The Templar catches his wrist, pulling the deadly blade away from his throat with contempt, and with barely a thought tosses Altaïr away, sending him crashing through supports weak with age.

The wall crumbles and collapses, and Altaïr is gone.

In the echoes of the screaming stone, Malik waits breathlessly for the sound of scrabbling, of panic, of some sign that Altaïr is trying to get through. Ears strain to pick up the most subtle sounds, and he hears the sound of footsteps, light and fleeting, getting further and further away. His blood turns to ice.

In front of him, the Templars have doubled in number and formed a protective wall in front of the Arc. Beside him, Kadar is drawing his sword, face pale but blade steady. Some abstract part of him is filled with pride seeing this. His brother, no matter how scatterbrained or excessively cheerful he may be, is still an Assassin and will never let his fear control him.

He grips his own sword tightly. Let the arrogant coward flee. He and Kadar will bring back the Arc alone and return as heroes. Perhaps then Altaïr will at last know humility. He crouches low, shifting weight to the balls of his feet. They will get out of this, one way or another. They have to.

Kadar leaps forward, heading for the furthest target on the left. As soon as he moves, Malik's hand darts out and embeds two knives in the throat of the Templars before him. Before their bodies hit the ground he sprints forward, sword sweeping low to cripple another. It is blocked - as he expects - and he switches his attack at the last moment, spinning round to slice high.

The battle begins.

It is easy at first; their initial charge carries them through the ranks, but as they near the Arc it becomes clear that their fortune will not last. Once the surprise is gone the Templars collect themselves and descend as one upon the pair. Unlike the common guards they are used to, these move as one - they coordinate their attacks so that the Al-Sayf brothers have to dodge and weave around each other to avoid a deadly strike.

As Malik rolls over his brother's back, blocking a swipe that could have killed Kadar, he holds hope that maybe, maybe they'll be able to deal with this. They are many, but the Assassins are lightly clad and the Templars are already starting to struggle under their thick tabards and heavy armour. They have the advantage, as long as they can last a little longer.

What he has not realised, however, is that de Sablé has not yet moved. It is a fatal mistake. As the Templars finally break rank, Kadar sprints towards the Arc. Malik draws their attention, shouting taunts in broken French. He's almost certain he just called one of them a hairy bread loaf, but he must keep their focus away from his brother, who is so close to the Arc he can just reach out and...

Suddenly hands shoot out, grabbing him from behind. Caught off-guard (affection is a weakness - Al Mualim had said as much so many times, but Malik refused to listen; nothing could ever be more important than his brother) there is little he can do to escape - there are simply too many. One slips away towards Kadar, sword swinging down towards his back. Seeing his brother spin and block the attack, Malik allows himself to focus on his own situation, but as soon as he does he wishes he hadn't.

De Sablé is coming towards him, an evil-looking mace in his hands. Its size is massive to his panicked eyes, large as the world and covered in cruel blunt spikes. Slowly the weapon rises, and he watches as the muscles ripple and flex in those massive arms. Malik renews his fighting - kicking, biting, trying to escape; he has to - one blow will kill him. He manages to tear himself away, but before he can run someone grabs his left arm and the mace head descends and...

A blinding, crippling pain explodes in his arm and he stumbles off balance, gasping desperately for air. Darkness eats away at his vision, the world blurring and sliding. His mind is in tatters, but as he fights to stay conscious a horrible curiosity overcomes him. Dreading what he will see yet powerless to resist, he looks down. From birth he has been numbed to blood and gore, yet the sight of his arm mangled almost beyond recognition brings bile to his throat.

Bone. He can see his own bone shattered and jutting out through torn skin. One look at the pulverised mess of his arm is enough to realise that he will never wield a hidden blade again. A single blow, and his future is in ruins.

One of the Templars grabs his shoulder to drag him round, sending waves of agony through his body. It is too much. Too much. They have failed the mission, been abandoned by Altaïr, and now it is all...

There is an awful, terrible noise behind him, so quiet and yet deafeningly loud - a little gasp, full of blood and pain and loss.

Malik spins round, almost wrenching his arm from his socket, and watches in horror as Kadar - sweet cheerful little brother Kadar - stares in shock at the blade buried deep in his chest. It takes only a moment, and Malik thinks that the world is such a cruel thing, to take him so quickly, so unceremoniously. There isn't any time to say goodbye. There isn't time to scream. There isn't even time for a quick glance between the two. He slips to the ground, no life left in him to do anything more than sigh.

In that moment, Malik's world comes crashing down.

A pulsing roar fills his mind. He can faintly hear a wild howling, though when he realises it is coming from himself he has already broken free and is descending with singleminded fury on the Templar trying desperately to pull his sword from Kadar's corpse. The red haze descends, and he knows nothing.

It lasts only a few minutes, but by the time he comes to his senses his throat is raw with anger and he is drowning in blood. He is surrounded by death, and the metallic scent clings to his soul. There are only two Templars left, and they watch in wide eyed fear, whilst de Sablé studies him over their shoulders with cold, calculating eyes. Exhaustion overcomes Malik, and he stumbles towards the Arc and his brother, trembling with each step. Behind him, there is a furious discussion going on.

"Maître, vous devez partir!"one of the Templars cries, stepping closer to Malik. He doesn't understand exactly what they are saying, but by the way they gesture wildly to the exit, he thinks the man cries for the others to escape.

The other Templar joins him with a murmur of agreement, holding his sword steady and dropping into a fighter's stance. He is older, more confident than his comrade, but when Malik sees them together he can no longer imagine them apart.

De Sablé freezes, astonishment on his stern features. It is clear that he never thought they would do this, and clearer still that he does not want them to.

The elder speaks to de Sablé in a calm, quiet voice, his eyes never leaving Malik's. He mentions something about the Arc, about honour and duty, but de Sablé is unconvinced. Beside him, his companion quakes and tries to hide it, drawing himself up and shouting a wild challenge to his fear.

"Nous ne pouvons pas vous laisser mourir ici, Maître! Laissez-nous vous protéger!"

The Grandmaster stares at them. Something seems to cross his features, but before Malik can even begin to imagine what it is, it disappears. He grips the shoulders of the two men. "Bonne chance, mes camarades," he whispers, and then he is gone.

The Templars move closer to each other 'till their shoulders brush. The Assassin studies them, sees how they clasp hands momentarily, the elder trying to smile reassuringly, the younger searching his eyes for hope (he was so young, too young, younger than Kadar, oh god _Kadar_). The sword grows steady, and he nods.

Malik hates them. After everything that has happened, after all he has been taught and trained to do, he expects them to be monsters. He needs them to be, to justify his pain and the death of his brother and the blood of so many lost to a private war. But they are not. They are human, as human as he is, and though they are scared they will fight. Even if only that de Sablé might go free.

He hates them, because he can no longer lose himself in anger. Briefly he contemplates dying here, but the thought of Kadar, eyes bright and hopeful, filled with respect and love is enough to break him out of that in moments. He cannot bear to think of Kadar's disappointment or the fake regret that Altaïr will show as he reports their deaths. The thought of that sends fresh waves of rage through him, and a kind of spiteful determination fills his body with strength. He will survive. If only to make the bastard suffer, he will survive.

The Templars are brave and well trained, and Malik is nearly half mad with agony and loss. But Malik is an Assassin, filled with new thoughts of determined vengeance.

The fight lasts barely a moment.

The elder lies dead, blank eyes staring into nothing. It is a clean wound, a quick death - Malik has tried to be merciful where he can. A little way off, the younger man (a child, a little boy, what has he done) is crawling towards him, leaving a bloody trail as he goes. There is no crying, no heart-wrenching agony in his eyes. Just acceptance, and a tinge of regret. The Assassin watches as he reaches his (friend? Brother? Lover?) and holds out a shaking hand. He sees the boy struggling to raise it, eyes fixed on the body before him. Without really knowing why, Malik kneels and, taking the small, lilly white hand in his, guides it to the dead man's chest. A crimson handprint over a white clad heart.

There is no sound in this hollow, hallowed hall. No sound but for the struggling breaths of a dead man. "À bientôt,Richard," he whispers, so quietly that Malik is not even sure the words are said. His gaze falls on the Assassin, clouded blue eyes meeting brown, and smiles weakly. "Merci." This one mouthed. His lips fall slack halfway through, a sigh escaping.

The hall is silent.

Malik trembles. Nausea sweeps over him and he wants so desperately to cry, to scream, but he is afraid that if he does then he will never stop until there is nothing left but an empty husk. Instead he bites down on the agony of it all and buries it deep, deep inside his soul to fester and grow rancid with every day that passes. He stumbles over to the Arc - now a hated, horrible thing - and slips it inside his pouch. Kneeling beside Kadar he whispers a quiet prayer. It has been so long since he spoke the words that he trips over them like a blind man, but though belief no longer drives his words (did it ever, honestly?) he does it for his brother's sake. There is no way to bury him, no way to take him away from this terrible place, but Malik does what he can. After a moments pause he does the same for the two Templars - he knows that they are human now, has been confronted with it, and now he cannot forget. He wishes that whatever god they believe in will give them peace.

And then, with all goodbyes said, the last of the Al-Sayfs turns around and limps back home.


End file.
